Dad died on June 26th. It was so sudden (can the death of a 95-year-old be sudden?) and so surprising that I couldn’t get my thoughts together to attempt a eulogy at the funeral. His last months were a struggle for him – more than I knew at the time, it seems. His hearing was declining, his eyesight was practically gone, and even his ability to get out of his chair presented challenges. He’d want to go to bed as soon as I finished giving him dinner in the evening, maybe around 5:30 or 6 o’clock, not because I insisted, but it seemed that he didn’t have any more fight left for the day. The only pleasure he really had in life was sitting in his chair with his rosary beads in one hand and a glass of wine at the reach. His best friends – those he had known throughout his last seven years without mom, were his salvation. These two gentlemen from church visited him regularly and even heroically ventured to take him to lunch on occasion. But even getting out of bed early enough to accommodate their mid-morning visits seemed a strain toward the end. I didn’t see it; I thought he was just getting a little bit – dare I say? – lazy in his old age. A few times I had to make excuses, and one changed his visiting time to afternoon, better suiting dad’s habits. But the night before he died was telling. Dad went to Mass with us, but we sat in back so he didn’t have so far to walk, and we followed that with a trip to Red Lobster where Al and I sat across from dad in a booth. When I would talk to him, he looked straight ahead at Al; we realized not until then how really bad his sight had gotten. Toward the end of the meal he asked me to put him to bed, not recognizing that we were in a restaurant. Reluctantly we wondered if placing dad in a nursing home later this summer might not be the only safe solution. The following day, Sunday, when I went over after work, he was still in bed but sat up quickly when I went to him. He was in a great mood; we put some brand new clothes on him and went to the kitchen for brunch. After a hearty meal, dad hobbled to the sink with his walker but dropped to the floor before he could return to me. I think he was dead immediately, although the paramedics did transport him to a hospital where he was pronounced. It was weeks ago now, but it is still so vivid in my mind. A few days after the funeral, the woman who cleaned his house told me she was always so touched to watch him saying his rosary and drinking his wine (simultaneously)throughout the afternoon. And I thought – the two things that continued to give him comfort – his wine and his prayer, his devotion to the Blessed Mother. In his last months, dad was so unsure of his footing that when he would have to walk anywhere (restroom, bedroom, kitchen) he would talk/pray aloud to her, "Blessed Mother, help me to get to …I think I can do it." And upon arrival, "Thank you, Blessed Mother" He didn’t realize that anyone around could hear his very private plea, but we did and it was so beautiful to behold the faith that sustained him. I continue to miss dad terribly, but I believe that these last years, trying and demanding as they often were, were God’s gift to me, a time to reconcile the stern father of my youth with the vulnerable man, daddy, that he was in his elder years. And I am grateful, grateful again to the God who lavishes us with gifts beyond telling, daily bread that we can sometimes only appreciate in retrospect.
THE VIEWS EXPRESSED ON THIS BLOG ARE MINE ALONE AND DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THOSE OF MY EMPLOYER.
